


a daydream needs reality to exist

by valentinehoax



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Language Barrier, M/M, Pining, they're in a bar in hong kong for the first part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valentinehoax/pseuds/valentinehoax
Summary: Kunhang is pretending that he's in a faux-1950's movie. A man full of nostalgia with a chip on his shoulder, with long coats and the lingering smell of cigars, with round oak tables and gambling chips strewn around carelessly. It's like this that he first catches a glimpse of another man who sits alone, similarly making his way through the drinks menu. Unlike Kunhang, who is letting himself drift through the gentle flow of his daydreams, this man seems deeply rooted in the reality in front of him.
Relationships: Wong Kun Hang | Hendery/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50
Collections: Challenge #5 — I heard a secret..





	a daydream needs reality to exist

Kunhang isn't one to travel often—having saved as much as possible to be able to visit Hong Kong, although the amount he spends on gacha games alone would beg to differ. The bar he's sitting in is empty except for a few patrons, most of whom are busy ignoring each other. Kunahng isn't one to strike up random conversations with people who don't seem all that interested, so he turns his gaze to the bartender and the drinks being placed in front of him.

Kunhang is pretending that he's in a faux-1950's movie. A man full of nostalgia with a chip on his shoulder, with long coats and the lingering smell of cigars, with round oak tables and gambling chips strewn around carelessly. It's like this that he first catches a glimpse of another man who sits alone, similarly making his way through the drinks menu. Unlike Kunhang, who is letting himself drift through the gentle flow of his daydreams, this man seems deeply rooted in the reality in front of him.

He's watching Kunhang with sharp eyes and sharper features. Each edge on and around the man is a sword blade, decorative and deadly. The kind of man who only fools would think they have control over. He nods at Kunhang, cutting through the daydream with a clean strike and throwing Kunhang back into the current decade. Kunhang can't help but smile, sliding over until he's seated by him. Kunhang pauses before he sits, the man patting the seat as an invitation Kunhang happily accepts.

"Hi," Kunhang says in Cantonese. The man waves in reply. Kunhang continues, "are you a local?"

This is met with a blank stare. So he can't understand Cantonese, Kunhang thinks sadly. It's a good thing he is well-versed in many languages; which isn't to say he's a _linguist,_ but in his more big-headed moments, he certainly takes a lot of pride of his natural ability in language.

"Do you know Mandarin?" Kunhang asks. The man blinks again, an enigmatic smile gracing his lips. Kunhang's vision tunneled until he can only see _him_. It's unhealthy, Kunhang knows, to fall so dramatically without even knowing this man's name or the sound of his voice.

"I guess not," Kunhang says. Switching to English, he says, "what about English?"

The man shakes his head. Kunhang then parses together what little Japanese he knows, to be met with the same gentle amusement. He greets him in Spanish—nothing. He says a random phrase in Bahasa Indonesian—he gets a shrug in return.

Frustrated, Kunhang's head clunks against the bar. Maybe he can't speak at all? That's always a possibility. But surely the man would've done something to put him out of misery, instead of letting him suffer in multilingualism. He would use his phone, translator, except his phone is in his room and if he leaves, he might return to find the man has disappeared.

"You're so pretty," Kunhang mumbles in Cantonese to the little stain on the bar counter, at this point not caring if the man understands him. Kunhang sits back up straight, moving the hair out of his eyes with a delicate gesture. If the mysterious man does understand, he should at least know the truth. Which is that he's possibly the best looking man Kunhang's ever met.

It's quite natural to meet people who don't share a language with you, especially where there's a lot of a tourists. Kunhang knows this, but it still comes as a disappointment to meet a man who only stares with amusement as he tries to string two words together in _any_ language, desperate to bridge the gap. Especially when he's _so_ pretty, Kunhang thinks half-despairingly. He doesn't want the night to end without at least getting a name and number.

The man opens his mouth to say words in a language Kunhang doesn't know. Kunhang is flustered, cheeks brightening as he sighs and slumps over the bar, resting his head on his arms and turning his head to keep the man in his view. Maybe he'll evaporate into thin air—maybe the daydream Kunhang is floating in constructed a man who appears to Kunhang as one might expect a god to look.

The man watches the movement like Kunhang's obvious pain is entertainment. Maybe it is, Kunhang reflects. Maybe this kind of thing always happens, and Kunhang is another fool caught up in his trap.

The man points to the centre of his chest. "Deokjun."

"Deokjun?" Kunhang asks, sitting back up. The man grins and nods.

"You're so cute," Kunhang complains in Cantonese. Kunhang then mimics Deokjun, pointing to himself. "Kunhang."

"Kunhang," Deokjun repeats, getting the tones correct on the first try. Deokjun nods to himself, then smiles at Kunhang. He holds his head high, a confidence that draws Kunhang in like a magnet. He says something in a language Kunhang doesn't know, the sound of everything pretty. He thinks it might be something like Korean, but the most he can say is _hello_ and _thank you._

" _Hello,_ " he tries anyway in Korean, watching Deokjun's eyes light up. Kunhang flaps a hand in front of his face with a sheepish grin. Deokjun gets the message, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. His t-shirt slips down, Deokjun lifting it back in place.

Deokjun then says more words that don't make sense. Kunhang can only smile in a way that offers no promises, giving away his lack of understanding. Deokjun laughs to himself at the expression he's making.

Kunhang holds up a finger then points to Deokjun, then at their empty glasses. He does it a couple of times until Deokjun gets the message, nodding easily and letting Kunhang order another drink.

Kunhang wonders how Deokjun got to this bar when he doesn't speak Cantonese or English. He asks Deokjun that much, seeing Deokjun only look confused in reply. Kunhang gestures wildly around himself, then points to Deokjun and shrugs. Deokjun seems to understand this—he's _so_ smart, Kunhang gushes internally and entirely baselessly—and pulls out a slip of paper. It's hotel stationery, the same one that operates above the bar they're currently in. That explains it, Kunhang thinks as he reads what's on the paper. It has a string of Korean characters on it, all indicating what looks like an address to somewhere and some orders of food.

Ideally, this would be the point where Kunhang flirts with Deokjun and gets his number (hopefully). All he wants to do is go on a date with Deokjun, maybe see a movie together and get a meal, then walk along a path somewhere while trading jokes.

But if they don't share a language, how the hell will they manage that? Kunhang sighs, now slouched in his stool, precariously balancing between the decorative backrest and the footrest. Deokjun looks at him with concern, clearly thinking about something. He opens his mouth to speak.

"How the hell can we date if I can't even ask you on one?" Kunhang blurts out, cutting Deokjun off without realising. Deokjun closes his mouth with a badly-suppressed smile. Kunhang, noticing this, sighs again. "Is my misery really so entertaining to you?"

Deokjun nods, and for a moment Kunhang believes Deokjun understands him. Then Deokjun taps his watch and says something in Korean, putting his hands together and placing them underneath his head. The universal gesture for sleep, Kunhang realises sadly, becoming even sadder when he thinks he'll be without Deokjun.

Deokjun then taps Kunhang's hand to get his attention. Once he has it—not that Deokjun ever lost it—he taps his watch, points downward, then makes a parabola shape with the tip of his finger three times in a line. Kunhang blinks, not understanding. Deokjun repeats, this time tapping the bar counter. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but Kunhang thinks Deokjun _must_ be saying to meet here again. Kunhang holds up three fingers, and mimes sleeping three times.

Deokjun laughs, nodding. Kunhang thinks this isn't looking good for his heart, but for now he'll indulge in a daydream set in reality.

***

As promised, Deokjun is there. Each night Kunhang approaches as one might approach a mirage; with careful steps, each step sinking into the ground like the world is trying to stop him from coming any closer. Kunhang stubbornly refuses to accept the fragility of his situation, telling himself this will not fade away into nothing. It _can't,_ it would be cruel of the world to strip him of this.

Each time Kunhang sees him, Deokjun smiles with a warmth and a confidence that renders the oxygen in Kunhang's lungs useless. Each parting is with the faintest brush of fingertips along the back of Kunhang's hand.

They communicate through a series of hand gestures and expressions. Kunhang's desire to bridge the gap between them is what powers him. Deokjun seemingly goes along with it, even going as far as to type words into a search engine to bring forth images, demonstrating whatever message he wants to convey.

Deokjun is made of sharp lines and accurate angles—he's made of pragmatic decisions and careful consideration. Kunhang doesn't know how he reached this conclusion, but the more he observes Deokjun interact with him and with other people, the more Kunhang's view of Deokjun is enforced.

Sometimes Deokjun stares at Kunhang. The few times Kunhang caught him, Deokjun's soft smile becomes wide, and it grows when Kunhang's stuttered Korean tumbles out of his mouth. On the third night, Deokjun's smile has a sadness that Kunhang can't place. Maybe it's because they both know how frail their relationship is. Kunhang wishes he can tell Deokjun that the end can still have a sequel, this tragic first installment can still play out in full. Kunhang doesn't.

The fourth night, Deokjun isn't there. Kunhang knew it was coming, but he still waits by the bar the whole night. The bartender gives him a look of pity. Kunhang smiles even as his eyes glaze over with tears.

***

"I miss him," Kunhang says to Sicheng sullenly. "His voice was so nice."

"Go to Seoul then," Sicheng says, not paying Kunhang much attention as they focus on their game. "Or just any place in Korea. But do you even know if he's gay?"

"That doesn't matter," Kunhang pouts. "I want to be his friend and bask in his presence."

At this admission, Sicheng puts down their phone with a raised eyebrow. "A _friend_? You're pining." They wave a hand at Kunhang from where he lies on the floor, starfished. Sicheng has their legs propped up on the table over Kunhang's body.

Kunhang stares at the ceiling, considering this. It's true he's fallen—but once upon a time he fell for Sicheng, and he fell for Ten, and for countless other faces. He falls over soft smiles and sharp grins, for the larger-than-life and the quiet wallflowers.

Maybe he's in love with humanity, Kunhang thinks sadly. Maybe he's never been in love.

"I know what you're thinking," Sicheng says softly over the tinny sound of gunfire from their game, although Kunhang is pretty they're losing. "It's not true—right now, you're definitely in love with a stranger you met in Hong Kong. At least try to find this Deokjun again. He sounds distinctive, it's a shame you didn't get a photo."

They know what Deokjun is like in intimate detail. Sicheng has patiently listened to Kunhang talk of how Deokjun's black hair had changed colours in the light, how he sat on a stool like he was posing for a camera, how he showed so many expressions in a short amount of time, and threw his body around when Kunhang made him laugh.

"I wish I knew Korean," Kunhang says despondently. "We could've talked about so much more. He said he liked anime too, but he'd only recently become a fan."

"You can show him a lot of new shows," they say as the familiar sound of a lost match chimes. Sicheng places the phone on their thigh, thinking for a moment. "It's funny how you connected over body language. I guess this is how cavemen did it back in the day."

This surprises a laugh out of Kunhang, breaking through his misery. Unlike the clean cut of Deokjun's presence, Sicheng's breakage is messy and incomplete, a shallow fracture which closes over when Kunhang's laughter dies down.

"He was so pretty," Kunhang says in a language Sicheng knows but doesn't yet understand. Hopefully SIcheng will never know—an endless daydream that Kunhang wishes he can wake up from is not a state he wants his friends to live in. Deokjun's _presence_ was— _is—_ pretty, adding to the spectrum of colours Kunhang can see; Deokjun is calming to Kunhang's chaos.

"Let's order pizza," Sicheng says finally.

***

"Do you think he's Thai?" Ten asks Kunhang.

"That would be handy, if you could translate," Kunhang says wistfully, "but I'm pretty sure he's Korean, since that was what he was speaking."

Ten hums through a mouthful of noodles. "Deokjun is a nice name. Kind of like another name I know."

Kunhang pauses in his eating, clearing his mouth of food. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," and then Ten smiles with a mischief to rival the Cheshire Cat. "Do you want to meet him?"

"Of course I do," Kunhang says. It's not enough to ease any pain in his chest. The rainbow in the sky isn't enough to brighten Kunhang's world any more.

But a friend is a friend, and Kunhang wants a new face to fall in love with instead of endlessly pining.

***

Kunhang is waiting with his heart in his throat and a constant shifting of his weight where he stands. He examines his nails to search for imaginary dirt, wondering why Ten is running late.

"Deokjun," Kunhang mutters, hands dropping to his sides. He stuffs them inside his pockets, rocking back on his heels. He tilts his head back to stare at the sky as if it can tell him when he'll see him again. A daydream can't exist without reality—Kunhang can live on just fine without Deokjun, but he doesn't want to reduce him to a tale he tells his grandchildren.

Not for the first time, Kunhang wishes he had the artistry of his friends. To be able to capture Deokjun in a painting, to immortalise his fleeting love in a dance, to dedicate an album to a stranger. All of the things Kunhang won't be able to give Deokjun.

It's cold. Almost unusually so, as if the weather feels Kunhang's pain just as much as he does. Kunhang has his hands stuffed in his pockets, patiently waiting for Ten to arrive.

"Kunhang?"

The voice breaks through Kunhang's daydream. It drags him forcefully back to reality. Kunhang almost doesn't want to turn around; maybe this is a mirage, a product of the reverie Kunhang has willingly trapped himself in.

"Kunhang," this time the voice sounds faintly amused, a tap on his shoulder. If this isn't Deokjun, Kunhang thinks fearfully, then he knows he'll burst into tears.

But it must be. Kunhang has ingrained that voice into his memory, has stored Deokjun with near perfect recollection. Despite his fears, he turns.

And he sees Deokjun, standing there with a red flush to his cheeks, with earmuffs over his ears, and wrapped up in a thick scarf. His hair is now a shocking shade of yellow, and there's a nervousness that grows when Kunhang doesn't say anything.

"Surprise," Deokjun says in Cantonese. "S-Sorry, I was kind of lying back in Hong Kong. I know Cantonese, but honestly you were so endearing when you tried communicating with me that..." his voice dies when he receives no reaction to Kunhang. Mustering up one last dose of courage, he says, "My name is actually Dejun."

Kunhang gathers what few remnants of his mind he has left, cradling them back into wakefulness. Carefully, he says, "I'm so glad I can see you again."

Dejun laughs, a sound jolted out of him from relief. He opens his arms cautiously, expecting a refusal. Kunhang is not foolish enough to reject Dejun. He flings himself into Dejun's embrace, finding warmth.


End file.
